


Midnight Clear

by genteelrebel



Series: Adam and Joe [8]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Christmas, Established Relationship, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the boys prepare to celebrate their first Christmas since Joe’s cancer diagnosis, Methos finds himself desperately in need of some comfort.  As always, Joe provides.  </p><p>Part of the Adam and Joe universe.  You probably need to have read at least "Adam and Joe" and "The House of the Novelty T-shirts" for this one to make any sense. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Clear

_**Las Cruces, New Mexico  
December, 2010** _

“Do you ever miss snow?”

Joe’s voice was soft. His tone was of a perfect piece with the quiet calm pervading the house, where the only other sounds to be heard where the gentle burbling of Joe’s childhood bubbling Christmas tree lights, and the steady low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Joe and Methos were lying on the living room floor in the darkness, staring up at the colorful glory of their tree. It was already the fourth such tree they’d decorated together since they’d begun their new lives in Las Cruces--although this year, Pixie and Methos had done most of the decorating. Oh, Joe had helped them as best he’d could. He’d unpacked most of the ornaments and even hung a few stockings before he’d been forced to sit down and rest. But eventually even just watching Methos and Milly from the couch had proved too tiring, and Joe had gone back to the bedroom for a long, long nap. 

Methos and Milly had ended up quietly finishing the job themselves, and it was only now—hours after Milly had gone home, and Joe had finally rested his fill—that Joe was getting his first glimpse of their work. Methos had made a cozy nest of blankets and afghans on the floor in front of the tree, and had carried Joe out to it before he turned off the living room lights. Now, the two of them were lying there side by side, gazing up into the green branches and watching the lights make a fairyland out of the room. It was a moment of such beautiful peace that Methos was startled Joe had felt the need to speak at all. The question surprised him even more. “Snow?” he said curiously. “What on earth brought that up?”

For answer, Joe pointed at a low hanging limb, where a little tinfoil-glued-to-construction-paper snowflake hung from a loop of glittery craft yarn. Originally made in art class by the then seven-year old Milly, the snowflake was now one of Methos’s and Joe’s favorite Christmas decorations, and was as carefully preserved and treasured by them as Amanda’s Faberge egg. Not that Milly seemed to see it that way. Now that she had reached the grand old age of ten, Milly had apparently become embarrassed by her former “childish” efforts, and had wanted to leave the snowflake in its box. Methos had been forced to do some fast talking to get her to hang it on the tree at all. Then, he’d had to hold his tongue while she quietly and shyly placed the snowflake on one of the lowest branches. It was now hanging only about a foot above the ground, where only two people silly enough to lie down on the floor would ever see it. 

Methos sighed. Sometimes it seemed to him that *everything* Milly did these days was done shyly and quietly. Her current gift to the tree—a wonderful origami angel, so delicately and intricately folded that Methos was astonished Milly’s ten-year-old hands had been capable of creating it at all—had also been hung as unobtrusively as possible. Milly had snuck it onto the side of the tree that faced the wall when Methos hadn’t been looking. He hadn’t even noticed it was there until he’d gone to straighten a string of lights after the girl had gone home. Oh, he knew the shyness was just a phase. Milly would doubtlessly hit a loud, obnoxious, show-offy stage in her early teens which Methos would find much harder to take. But there were moments now when Methos genuinely missed his bright-eyed, talkative, curious-about-everything little Pixie, the one who had crashed through his and Joe’s lives instead of creeping. The quiet, solemn girl who’d help him trim the tree today had seemed like a stranger. 

But that was a worry for another day. If there was one thing Methos had gotten very good at in the months since Joe’s cancer diagnosis, it was in taking life one day…and sometimes one moment…at a time. Some of those moments were for worry. Some of them were for terror, others for rage or for grief. And some—like the present moment—were just for joy. For reveling in the simple sweetness of lying at Joe’s side, for loving him and teasing him the way he always had. Methos rolled lazily onto his side so he could face him, and smiled at the way one Christmas tree light was casting a blurry red shadow on Joe’s temple. “Snow, huh,” he said teasingly. “Could it be that the Pixie’s ornament is making you nostalgic for a colder climate, Jobey? If so, don’t blame me. You were the one who wanted to start our new lives in a warmer place. Specifically so you could see me going shirtless as often as possible. Or at least that’s what you said at the time.”

“Mmm. Yeah, that’s right. I did.” Joe’s hand appeared at Methos’s waist. He started tugging sleepily at the hem of Methos’s t-shirt. 

Methos grinned and took over, sitting up so he could pull the shirt over his head. After all these years, it was wonderful to know that ‘being eye candy’ was still one of the many roles he could fulfill for his mate. Methos re-settled on the floor, enjoying the feel of the soft blanket against his bare back, enjoying the feel of Joe’s hand stroking reverently down his chest even more. “Not that the warmer weather has really done me any good,” Joe mumbled drowsily. “You just traded in your collection of sweatshirts for t-shirts. Ones with really bad jokes printed on them.” 

“You’re the one who bought me most of them, Jobey.”

“Yeah, well, I had to. Couldn’t have you running around looking this gorgeous…” another sleepy swipe of Joe’s hand over his chest… “all the time, now could I? Having your students plaster your picture all over Facebook the one time you took your shirt off on campus was enough. Any more would start a riot.” Joe yawned. “You still haven’t answered my question.” 

“And what question was that? Oh, yes, about the snow. Hmmm. Let me see.” Methos shrugged. “Do I miss the phenomena of frozen water falling from the sky, at least one in every dozen flakes specifically targeted by the vengeful weather gods to fall down the back of my neck? Do I miss the mess of muddy, dirty slush in the roads, making getting around in a cold, stressful world even colder and more stressful? Why, yes, Jobey. I miss it all the time.”

“Brat,” Joe said warmly, without even a hint of disapproval, and Methos grinned a grin that crinkled all the way back to his earlobes. Joe smiled, too. “I guess you kind of missed out on the whole ‘snow day’ thing when you were a kid.”

“Jobey, I must have been well into my sixth century before I ever saw a snowstorm. Up until then, I thought all the rumors about the northern gods crying crystal tears that covered the world in cold were just tall tales told by travelers. Ones I most definitely didn’t believe in.” Joe nodded drowsily, his eyes still fixed on Pixie’s snowflake. Methos touched his shoulder tenderly. “Something tells me that you miss it, though.”

“Yeah. I guess I do,” Joe agreed. “Not the traffic jams or the snowflakes down my collar. But…there’s always something special about the first snowfall of the year. Like there’s something big and magic happening that nobody can control. Back in Seacouver, I always used to love the way the entire world seemed to slow down for it. People would stop whatever they were doing, just to stare out the windows with this little-kid look their eyes. And I miss the sound…” Joe yawned again. 

“The sound?”

“Yeah,” Joe said, voice very sleepy now. “Falling snow *does* make a sound, you know. It’s just that nobody ever notices, because they’re too busy paying attention to the way it makes everything else become so quiet. It dampens everything down…fills the world with this expectant hush. Like a church…or a concert hall…” And Joe was asleep, his head a heavy weight against Methos’s chest.

Methos let it stay there, thinking about how, with Joe, everything always came back to the music sooner or later. To his beloved, the world really was a concert hall, with everything in it contributing its own melody to the total symphony. Methos lay there, listening to the quiet prelude that was all the gentle night sounds of the house combining with the peaceful rhythm of Joe’s breath, until the clock chimed midnight and it was time to carry Joe back to bed.

***

The melody of this particular holiday was going to be a very quiet one.

It didn’t have to be, Methos reflected the next morning as he stood alone in their quiet kitchen, rinsing off the remains of Joe’s depressingly small breakfast into the sink. Almost every day Methos got a phone call from Duncan or an e-mail from Amanda offering to come, to celebrate the holidays or even just to sleep on the couch while they helped him care for Joe. Methos always politely declined, even though, deep down, he knew he was being selfish, and possibly even cruel. Make that *very* cruel, if Joe’s doctors had somehow made a second mistake about how advanced Joe’s cancer really was, and this turned out to be Joe’s last Christmas… 

But it was what it was. There would be time to gather everyone for final goodbyes later, should things continue to go downhill. For the moment, Methos simply couldn’t deal with one more complication—and a visit from either Duncan or Amanda could hardly be anything else. Fortunately, Joe understood. His own relationships with their Immortal family tended to be quite astonishingly simple these days, based on love unconditionally given and unconditionally received in return, but he knew Methos’s were anything but; being an unwilling participant in a Game that must someday be fought to the death ensured it. Once Methos had made it clear to Joe that having another Immortal in the house would simply make life more difficult for him, not less, Joe had stopped pushing him to accept the offers. And Methos had gotten the gift of having his beloved all to himself. For this year, at least.

He smiled to himself as he finished tidying up the kitchen. Methos was always careful to be extremely vague whenever people asked how long he and Jobey had been together. Partly this was because admitting the full time span would have meant that the now allegedly 40-year-old Dr. Porter was all of 16 when he and Joe first met, a circumstance highly frowned upon in today’s culture. But it was also because their relationship had contained so many fits and starts that it was hard to date. Should Methos start counting from 1986, when Don’s grad student IOU had fallen so hopelessly in love with a mortal bookstore owner? From 1994, when Joe had discovered Methos was Immortal? From ‘95, when Joe had learned exactly which Immortal he was? Or from 1998, when they had moved to London and finally made their relationship public? For the last several years, they had publicly celebrated the late fall day of their London commitment ceremony as their anniversary, and counted from there. Privately, they remembered a Seacouver night more than a decade earlier, when practically everything about their relationship had been a lie except the love they had felt. Twenty-four years ago, now.

Twenty-four years. A blink of an eye, by Immortal standards. More than a third of a lifetime for Joe. And a lifetime unto itself for Methos, who now felt that his existence really hadn’t started until he’d found Joe. He knew Joe still felt badly about that sometimes—felt that Methos should not have allowed himself to become so dependant on a mortal life. He still remembered the conversation they’d had during their first Thanksgiving in Las Cruces, when the last dish had been washed, the last leftover shrouded in plastic wrap and entombed within the fridge, and the last goodnight said to their Immortal guests before their bedroom door had been mercifully closed, allowing them the first privacy they’d had all day. Both Methos and Joe had agreed that they were much too tired by the day’s festivities to do more than shower and fall into bed. Nevertheless, when Methos had finished his shower and was combing his wet hair in front of the bathroom mirror, Joe had come up behind him and wrapped his arms around him. “Good day,” he’d murmured, planting a kiss on Methos’s still wet shoulder.

“Very good day,” Methos had affirmed. “Nice to have the young folks home for the holidays, isn’t it, Grandpa?” 

Joe kissed his shoulder again. “Only you…” kiss… “could get away with…” kiss… “calling a two thousand year old thief and a four hundred year old Highland Scot…” kiss… “the young folks.” Kiss. 

“What can I say? Age does have some privileges,” Methos had smiled. He’d put down his comb, turned, and wrapped Joe in his arms. “Everyone had a good time at dinner. Even Mac seemed to enjoy himself, charming Gabriella.”

“I still say it was devious of you, telling Margaretta that Mac was recently divorced.”

“It worked out well, didn’t it?”

“Mmmm-hmmm. I suppose that it did. And I suspect you had your reasons.” Joe had given him a final squeeze, then elbowed him out of the way so he could perform his own ablutions. “By the way,” he’d said from over the sink, “The Sprout saw you kissing Mac today.”

Methos had raised his eyebrows. “Did she?” Joe had nodded solemnly. Methos had sighed. “I thought she might have, from the way she was acting. But I couldn’t really quiz her about it in front of Duncan. Was she much upset?”

“Confused more than upset, I think,” Joe had answered. “The scariest thing was that she wanted to know just how many names you and I had. We’re going to have to be more careful what we say in front of her, and reiterate the ‘our names are Alex and Jobey now’ lecture to Mac and Amanda and Nick. Slipping up in front of the adults from time to time is one thing, but the Sprout is a hundred times worse. She’s always watching, and she has the memory of an elephant. Fortunately, I thought fast and told her that it wasn’t unusual for people who love you to have special nicknames for you. She seemed to buy it.” Joe chuckled. “After we had that settled, though, she wanted to know if Mac was a ‘man stealing floozy’ who was going to take you away from me.”

“No way. She actually asked you that?” Joe had nodded, eyes dancing. Methos had stared for a moment, and then he’d begun to laugh. “My, my. They grow up so fast. Where on earth did she pick up that expression?”

“Television, probably. I thought it was pretty funny, too,” Joe had answered. He’d grinned at Methos in the mirror. “Just in case you didn’t already know, in the World According to Sprout, you’re *my* sweetheart. Therefore, I’m the only one you’re supposed to kiss.”

“Goodness. She does see a lot, doesn’t she?”

“Something tells me we’re going to have to start checking the blinds before we go to bed at night,” Joe had said wryly. Then his eyes had gotten more serious. “It must have been one heck of a kiss. I didn’t catch Mac brooding once all evening.”

Methos had shrugged. “Standard issue Methosian pity kiss. No tongue but lots of affection. I’d demonstrate, but it’s reserved for letting down old lovers lightly.”

“He’s still in love with you.”

“He thinks he is. Really, he’s just still grieving for Connor and feeling lonely for Kate.”

“Funny. You don’t look a lot like Kate.”

“That’s just because you haven’t seen me in a push-up bra. Well, not since that one Watcher Halloween party…” Joe had chuckled. Methos had laid his hands on Joe’s shoulders, letting the teasing atmosphere die away. “Joe, you are my life,” he said, simply and seriously. “The keeper of my heart and the center of my universe. If Duncan’s current infatuation is bothering you—and I stress ‘current’, since we both know it’s not going to last--I can snub him much more thoroughly. So thoroughly that he’ll refuse to even set foot on the same continent I’m on, let alone fool himself into believing he’s in love. It’s only because you still think of him as family that I haven’t.”

Joe had worn a sad little look on his face. “I don’t want you to snub him, Methos. I want you to keep him close. Not for my sake. For yours.”

“Jobey Darwin. After all we’ve been through, surely you can’t still believe that I want him!”

“No,” Joe had answered, turning from the mirror and taking Methos’s hands. “No. I’m your life. I know that. That’s why I want you to keep him close, really. Because someday—“ he’d pressed Methos’s hands into his chest—“Someday, this mortal heart o’ mine *will* stop beating, and when it does you are going to break into a million pieces. You’re going to need somebody then, if not to put the pieces back together, then at least to sweep them into a pile and keep them safe until you can do it for yourself. And right now, Mac’s the only one I know who I can trust with the job. Amanda might be up for it in a few more decades, if she keeps on developing the way she has been, but now…well, you know what I mean.” The mortal eyes had met Methos’s beseechingly. “You do see what I mean, don’t you?” 

“I’m not a Ming vase, Joe.”

“No. You’re much, much more precious.”

There had really been nothing Methos could say to that, and so he’d given his beloved a decidedly non-pitying kiss and taken him to bed, where the serious mood had rapidly dissolved into hushed giggles as they tried to figure out a way to have sex quietly enough not to disturb their guests. But the conversation had kept coming back into Methos’s thoughts anyway, as the holidays continued on… 

And now, nearly four years later, with the shadow of Joe’s cancer hanging over both their heads, he thought of it more often than he really should. It was true. Methos could no longer conceive of a life without Joe in it. When the day came that the fragile vase that was Joe’s mortal life finally shattered, he would break as well, perhaps forever. The thought didn’t particularly frighten him. Methos was far, far too old to poison the present by worrying about an inevitable future. But it did add a certain extra poignancy to every happy hour now, knowing that it couldn’t possibly last. And that made him determined to make the most of each and every moment.

Methos checked his watch. Joe had slept for several hours; he would be rested and relaxed. It was time to go make some more happy moments.

***

There were good days and bad days, when you were caring for a mortal beloved who went in for chemotherapy every four weeks. Joe’s treatments were always followed by a few very bad days indeed, during which all Methos could really do was try to get him through it as best he could. Those were the days that Joe rarely stirred from his bed, and even the Pixie became more mouse-like than usual, doing her homework silently in the living room and going home promptly at six without being told. The days after that would be better. Joe would still feel weak, but his smiles and his sense of humor would return, and he’d spend hours lying in bed listening to the Sprout read in between good-naturedly complaining about the easy-to-digest meals Methos prepared. Then the upward trend became a sine wave, a better day followed by a not-so-good one as Joe inevitably pushed himself to do too much, and had to spend more time in bed as a result. Methos had given up on trying to get Joe to be more moderate during this phase, and the rhythm of one day up, one day down, was now firmly inscribed on his heart. After about a week of this there would come a string of better days, and then finally the really, really good ones. Joe’s energy would return and he would be almost like his old self…just in time to receive another treatment. And the cycle would begin again.

They were about halfway through the most recent cycle now, and Methos firmly expected today to be one of the not-so-good days. Joe had simply done too much yesterday with the tree for it to be otherwise. And Methos was partially right. When he walked into the bedroom Joe was still lying in bed, blinking groggily and looking very tired despite his long morning’s nap. But he turned Methos’s way the instant he heard the door, and the smile he gave when he saw what Methos was wearing was rich with his old sparkle. “Well, well,” Joe said softly, pushing himself up against the pillows so he could get a better view. “Look at you.”

Methos pirouetted to show off the holiday elf’s hat he wore, green and velvet and ridiculously embellished with fuzzy pompoms and dangling jingle bells. The tray he carried was decorated with a large sprig of plastic mistletoe, and Methos had added a short garland of bright red tinsel around his neck for good measure. “’Tis the season, Jobey,” he said brightly. “Just call me Santa’s Little Helper.” He sat down the tray on the bedside table and gave a tiny shrug. “I thought perhaps you’d welcomed a visit from an elf. Since Santa himself is unlikely to make a personal appearance this year.”

“Oh, I don’t know about *that*,” Joe said with a sleepy little yawn. “It’s never safe to count St. Nick out of the picture entirely. I agree he probably won’t show up in time for Christmas, but you never know. He might have to make a special trip a little later in the year, just for you.” Joe gave a tiny smile at Methos’s suddenly strained, trying-hard-not-to-look-*too*-hopelessly-aroused expression, and then turned his attention to the tray. “I see that you came bearing gifts.” 

“What? Oh. Oh, yes. Very special gifts.” Methos shook his head to bring it back from the vacation it had been on, and picked up the little paper cup full of pills from the tray. He rattled it theatrically as he sat down on the bed. “Two big blue pills, just for you. And a tiny little white one for dessert.”

“Darn.” Joe mock-pouted. “You didn’t bring me a purple one? But the purple ones are my favorite.”

“Timing, Jobey, timing. All good things must come in their own season. You get a purple one with supper.” 

Joe eyed the tray skeptically. “And the mistletoe?”

“Even a humble elf deserves some rewards. Call it a perk of the job.” Methos helped Joe take the pills, then picked up the berried sprig and held it over his head expectantly. Joe smiled one of his beautiful sun-rising smiles, then leaned Methos’s way and closed his eyes. They kissed gently, both of them suppressing snorts of laughter as the motion made the bells on Methos’s elf hat tinkle, until Methos sensed that Joe was working harder than he should have to in order to stay upright and finally broke away. Joe immediately let his shoulders drop back against the headboard, but Methos was glad to see that his contented smile lingered; despite his obvious fatigue, the kiss hadn’t caused Joe any pain. Methos took the opportunity to steal a place for himself at the foot of the bed, sprawling across it with the boneless contentment of a cat. Joe eyed him fondly. “How long did I sleep?”

“Just a few hours. It’s not quite ten-thirty yet.”

“Hmmm. Not quite ten thirty. That means…” Joe did some quick mental calculations, then smiled a smile that caused all of Methos’s hormones to sit up and take notice. “We have a little more than four hours before the Sprout gets home from school.”

“About that, yes,” Methos answered. Joe just continued to grin at him. Methos felt his heart begin to beat faster. “Does that mean…ah…that you might have plans for a few of them?”

“Oh, maybe one or two,” Joe answered. “But mostly I just wanted to enjoy your company for a while. I’m still too tired to do much else.” He nodded at the blankets at his side. “Join me?”

Methos sprang into instant action, dropping the tinkling elf hat on the floor and toeing off his shoes. A few moments later he had stripped down to the far-more-comfortable-for-lounging costume of boxers and t-shirt, and was sliding under the covers. He stretched his toes to the very edge of the mattress with a luxuriant wiggle, letting the smooth cotton sheets caress every inch of his skin—then felt a disturbing tickle beneath his ass. Somehow, the prickly tinsel garland had hitched a ride with him into bed. Methos fished it out and dropped it sheepishly on the floor. Joe shook his head indulgently. “You and your holiday decorations,” he said.

This was a slur too great to be born. “’Me and *my* holiday decorations?’” Methos repeated incredulously. “Jobey, *you* are the entire reason we own enough boxes of holiday knick-knacks to open our own Hallmark store. The Pixie and I almost succumbed to exhaustion just hauling it all up the stairs.”

Joe chuckled, low in his throat. “True,” he said. “You two did just fine without me, though. The house looks great. Did the Sprout have a good time helping you decorate?”

Methos sighed. “I don’t know. I think so,” he answered. “It was a little hard to tell.”

“Another one of those nights when she barely said ten words?” Methos nodded unhappily. Joe frowned. “Alex…do you think she’s feeling okay? I caught her rubbing at her upper arms the other day as if they were hurt.”

“Yes, I know. I saw that, too,” Methos answered. “I asked her about it. Turns out that they’re doing a unit on rope climbing in PE, and the Pixie came home with some pretty sore muscles. I offered her some aspirin and an ice pack, but she said she didn’t need them.”

Joe looked horrified. “They made her do that? Alex, you’re going to have to have a talk with that gym teacher. The Sprout is at least one year younger and six inches shorter than anyone else in that class. There’s no way she can keep up with the rest of the kids, although if I know the Sprout, she’ll kill herself trying. Geez. No wonder she keeps coming home with bruises.” Joe shook his head. “Maybe it was a bad idea, having her skip a grade.”

“Not our decision to make, Jobey.”

“No. I know,” Joe answered sadly. “It’s Gabriella’s. And the Sprout really *does* need the challenge of harder schoolwork. I just…I just wish things could be a little easier for her, that’s all.” 

“Yes, well,” Methos said. In his heart of hearts, he cherished the same wish that Joe did. But as much as they loved her, one inescapable fact remained: the Pixie was not their child. Their power to effect change in her life was extremely limited, and it always made Methos very uncomfortable whenever Joe seemed in danger of forgetting that. Forgetting it, Methos knew, would lead to nothing but heartbreak for them all…

But he didn’t want to get caught in an argument, not today. So he took refuge in a cliché instead. “Maybe in some way it’s all for the best,” he said. “After all, seedlings need to feel the wind. Otherwise, they never grow strong enough to resist it.”

“I think the Sprout’s already experienced enough ‘winds’ in her young life to make her strong enough to withstand a hurricane,” Joe retorted. “But you’re right, of course. It’s not like we really have much to say about it, one way or the other.” For a moment, Joe looked very sad. Then his eyes suddenly twinkled. “Shame you didn’t get a second elf hat,” he said. “I bet the Sprout would look as cute as a button in one.”

Methos smiled, relieved by the change of topic. “I may lend it to her for some photos this weekend,” he said. “Amanda e-mailed me yesterday. She says that if she can’t see us this holiday, she at least wants me to send her a few pictures of ‘l'petit chéri, doing something Christmas-y’. I thought I’d give Pix the elf hat and pose her in front of the tree. Send a copy to Duncan, too.”

“That’s a good idea. They won’t believe how much she’s grown.” Joe was quiet for a few moments, thoughtful. Then: “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“For what?”

“You know. For telling Mac and Amanda not to come.”

Now this was a surprise. Methos turned his head on the pillow, surveying his beloved carefully. “And there was me thinking I was the only one feeling anti-social this year,” he said. “I was sure you’d agreed to a quiet holiday just to humor me. If it was up to you, wouldn’t we have a whole houseful of Immortal guests right now?”

“Yeah, probably,” Joe answered. “That would be why I’m thanking you.” He smiled at Methos’s confused expression. “Don’t look at me like that. I really mean it. Until we finally figure out who or what was behind those last few Challenges you’ve fought, we really do need to keep our Immortal family away. Besides, I’m just too tired for company right now. I didn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. If just hanging a few ornaments on the tree completely wiped me out, there’s no way I’d have been able to keep up with the likes of Amanda and Nick.” He smirked. “No matter how many of those awful wheatgrass and sea anemone power shakes you make me.”

“You mean the ones you keep getting the Pixie to flush down the toilet for you when you’re supposed to be helping her memorize the periodic table?”

“Hey! Would I do a thing like that?” 

Methos just lifted an eyebrow expressively and waited. It didn’t take long for Joe to capitulate. “Oh, all right,” he said. “She does sometimes flush them down the toilet for me. But she always makes me drink at least half the glass first. I think she’d make me drink all of it if I hadn’t made her taste one once, and she was forced to agree that a pair of month-old gym socks would have a better flavor. Where on earth did you come up with that recipe, anyway?”

“It’s my own. The collected medical wisdom of 5,000 years of life, all conveniently smooshed together inside our blender. I could probably make us a hundred dollars a bottle if I started selling it on QVC.” It was Joe’s turn to raise an expressive brow, and Methos’s turn to capitulate. “Oh, all right. And it does taste remarkably like something the dog left behind,” he admitted. “But it’s good for you, Jobey. Full of vitamins and healing herbs the modern world’s forgotten. Your body needs every edge it can get if it’s going to fight this thing.”

“I know,” Joe said tenderly. “That’s why I let the Sprout talk me into drinking half.” He reached out to run a hand down Methos’s arm, a warm, protective gesture, then relaxed back down onto the pillows. “But even you will admit it’s not exactly a miracle cure. Dr. Jeanne told me at my last appointment that I had to be really careful not to get too tired now, or the last few months of my chemotherapy would be much harder than they had to be. And while I love Duncan and Amanda dearly, I can’t say that either of them are what you’d call “restful” company. Exciting, yeah. Exhilarating, even. But not restful.” Joe gave a small shrug. “So I’m just as glad that you’ve been saying ‘no’ on the phone whenever they call. You always seem to know what I need, Methos. Even better than I know myself.”

“Ah.” Methos looked down at his toes uncomfortably. “Well, it wasn’t all altruism, Joe. I had my own reasons for not wanting to see the family this year.”

“Yeah?” Joe suddenly looked very curious. “I had wondered, you know. You seemed a bit too adamant about it for the Game to be the only reason. Did something happen with MacLeod?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Methos shook his head. He gave a tiny shrug, letting his head sink uncomfortably down into his shoulders. “It’s just that they’re Immortal, Jobey.”

“I had sort of figured that out.”

Methos smiled a tight smile at the loving good humor in his mates’ voice. His head sunk down even further. “And you’re not.”

“Funny. I’d kind of figured that one out, too,” Joe said. This time, the humor in his voice was tempered by a deep, loving warmth. “Neither piece of information is exactly new to me, Methos. I don’t get why it’s bothering you now.”

Methos sighed. He hadn’t really intended to share this with his mate. But Joe was right there, resting on the pillow next to him, and he’d already assumed his best patient-waiting face—so it was much too late to back out now. “I just…I guess I just don’t want to see the look in their eyes when they see you,” Methos confessed.

“And what look is that?”

“The one that says that, even though you’re still talking and walking around, in their hearts and minds you’re already dead.” Methos finally lifted his head and looked his husband straight in the eye. “Come on, Joe. You must know the one I mean. They’ve been using a version of it for years, long before this current crisis. I can remember seeing Duncan look at you like that way back in Joe’s Bar. Amanda is subtler, but she has it, too. It’s that look of fond sadness that says, even though they care for you, they’re not going to let you get too close. Because deep down inside, they’re already preparing for you to be gone…”

“Yeah,” Joe said thoughtfully. “Yeah. I know the look you mean.” He reached out for Methos, wordlessly inviting him to cross over onto his half of the bed. Methos gratefully accepted the invitation and slid over, relaxing with his head against Joe’s chest. After a second, Joe’s hand started stroking his hair. “It’s not…I don’t think it’s meant to be unkind.”

“No,” Methos agreed tiredly. “No, it isn’t. Actually, it’s a tribute. It means that they care about you enough to make your death a very painful thing. So painful that they need to start preparing for it in the present, in order to avoid being overwhelmed by it in the future.” He looked bleakly at the ceiling. “But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier for me to see it.”

“No,” Joe said thoughtfully. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.” Another few meditative hair strokes. “*You* don’t look at me like that. You never have. Not even when we first met.”

“No. That’s right. I never did.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t know, really. I suppose it’s because even back then, I knew.”

“Knew what?”

Methos didn’t answer, not in words. If he had—if he’d said: *Because somehow I knew even then that you’d become like life itself to me, Joe, and therefore that thinking about your death would be as impossible as contemplating my own*—the words would have seemed far too trite, possibly even too corny to be believed. But he sat up, put his arm on the other side of Joe’s body, ever so tenderly placing his lips on the center of Joe’s chest…and Joe caught enough of his emotions to understand. A deep light came into his eyes. “Oh,” he said. “You knew *that*.”

“Yes.” Another kiss. “That.” Methos’s hands moved to the spot he’d just kissed and started stroking gently outward, moving from sternum to ribs. “Feeling good enough for a massage?”

The light in Joe’s eyes brightened even further. “I thought you’d never ask.”

They shifted positions, Joe sliding down the bed so that he was lying flat on his back with his arms spread, and Methos sitting comfortably at his side. Joe sighed in pleasure as Methos’s extremely deft hands began massaging away the tension in his shoulders and chest. It was a pleasure that had become very familiar to them both. Methos tried to give Joe at least a small massage every day, even though there was still some question as to whether or not he should. Modern medical science still hadn’t made up its mind about whether or not massage was a good thing for cancer patients. On the one hand, producing endorphins, preserving muscle tone, and helping patients relax was all for the good. On the other hand, there was a chance that deep massage strokes could cause metastasized cancer cells to spread more quickly through the body, and should therefore be avoided. After reading a ridiculous amount of medical literature on the subject—none of which seemed to contain any real scientific study, just lots of opinion—Methos had finally decided which horn of the dilemma he would impale himself on. There was no power on this earth that could stop him from touching Joe. Not when he was convinced his touch could do some good. 

But he kept his hands gentle and his senses engaged, ever alert to the possibility of trouble. After all, he’d been trained as a healer within more cultures than the modern world even knew had existed. There were things his hands knew about the human body that no Western doctor could comprehend, even if Methos had somehow been able to cobble together enough modern words to explain. So for Joe he used every art at his disposal: he stimulated acupressure points, he smoothed his aura, he balanced his chakras and unblocked meridians. He even did a few other things his ancient brain had long since forgotten the names of, but his hands still remembered--and Joe encouraged him. After all, it had been Methos who first felt the…wrongness…in Joe’s belly so many months ago, when they’d been making love in a hotel room in Osaka. Joe firmly believed that if anything else went wrong, Methos would sense that, too. And so the daily massage had become a ritual of love and reassurance for them both. 

The thing Joe could never understand—not really, though whenever Methos voiced it, he made a valiant try—was that to Methos, these daily massages went far beyond medical necessity. To him they were an act of worship, a chance to admire and adore the body Methos found more beautiful than anything else on earth. He always had, ever since that long-ago night in Seacouver when he’d first been allowed to see it and touch. Now, after months of illness and weight loss had altered it forever, Methos found it even more so. He adored the new lightness and the new softness, the way muscles that had once been rock hard now yielded so sensually to his hands. He loved how Joe’s thinning skin made it that much easier to see the structure underneath, the bones and sinews of the man he loved. Methos could literally spend hours worshipping that structure, cataloging the changes with his hands and lips, and Joe was good enough to let him—sometimes staring down at him with the same indulgent look he wore whenever Milly started rambling on about her latest adventures in amateur cartography, but letting him just the same. Joe even tolerated the times when Methos’s fear suddenly overcame him and his control broke, desperation making him rub off against Joe’s thighs or rut into Joe’s welcoming hand with much more force than a sickbed should really see. Both of them knew such moments were all a part of the process. The tides of fear and need could only be ridden through, not gotten round. It was as simple as that.

But today, as Methos let his fingers gently skate across the familiar landscape of Joe’s body, he felt no desperation. There was only a surprising peace settling into his soul, a peace that grew as he felt Joe’s body begin to relax. He found ticklish spots to which he gave the most gentle of teasing caresses, causing Joe to squirm and chuckle throatily. He found tender places to which he devoted much greater attention, stroking them, licking them, trying to love them out of pain and back to peace. Some of these places were old, old wounds, like the scar tissue at the ends of Joe’s thighs, or the three bullet holes Methos had once cleaned and stitched in a bookstore basement. Some of them were much newer, such as the rough, raw place in Joe’s elbow where his chemotherapy drip was inserted, and the scar in his navel from his laparoscopic surgery.  
Methos paused as he hovered over this last, fingers resting lightly on Joe’s abdomen while his nose hovered just a few inches from the scar. It was such a tiny thing, really. Such a small hurt in comparison to what scarred Joe’s body elsewhere. And yet, it was that small wound which had saved his beloved’s life. Methos brushed the scar reverently with his lips, noting the way the angry red tissue was already starting to fade. He vowed to himself that even if the scar should someday become invisible, he would never forget its presence. No, he would always pay it the tribute it was due…

From above him, Joe spoke softly. “You must have had the dream again, last night.” 

Damn. On nine occasions out of ten, Methos loved that Joe had come to know him so well. He loved that the mortal could read him so perfectly that lying wasn’t just impossible, it was downright unnecessary, as ridiculous and pointless as lying to one’s own fingers or feet. Still, the other ten percent of the time—usually when Methos was trying to protect Joe from his darker thoughts, for Joe’s own good-- were inconvenient, to say the least. He looked up, chin still resting on Joe’s belly, and smiled ruefully. “Am I that obvious?”

“You called out for me last night in your sleep.”

“Ah, well.” Methos gave a lazy shrug. “*That* doesn’t mean anything, Jobey Darwin. You frequently star in my dreams. I could have just been calling out your name during the throes of erotic passion.”

Joe chuckled. “True, but it wasn’t that kind of call. I *can* tell the difference, you know. And for the last ten minutes you’ve been hovering over my stomach like you’re a medieval pilgrim and my laparoscopy scar contains some holy relic. You only start worshipping my navel when you’ve had the dream about the cancer coming back.”

Methos turned his head so his cheek rested on Joe’s skin, letting his hands glide gently over Joe’s abdomen once again. *Holy relic?* he thought wistfully. *Not exactly. The only thing this skin contains is you, Joe. Your breath, your heartbeat, your life. Which, of course, makes it the most sacred thing on earth...* But he said none of this out loud. Instead he just cocked his head, looking up at his husband curiously. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think I ever actually told you what that nightmare was about. Are you still dreaming my dreams, Jobey?”

“Sometimes,” Joe said softly. “But this time I didn’t have to. No mysterious Immortal-mortal connection is required to understand this one, Alex. All I had to do is love you. Come here.” He lifted his arms in invitation, and after a moment Methos crawled back up his body and settled down into them, laying on his side with his head tucked into Joe’s shoulder. “They got it all, you know,” Joe said when he was settled. “During the surgery. I woke up knowing that they’d gotten it all. The chemotherapy is just insurance.”

Methos stiffened angrily, thinking of the toll the treatments were taking on Joe’s body and mind. “Damn expensive insurance,” he groused into Joe’s chest hair, and instantly felt petty and small. He was supposed to be the strong one here, not the one indulging in childish emotions. “Sorry,” Methos said apologetically, trying to make himself relax. “I know all that, I really do. It’s just…well. The doctors were wrong once. They could be wrong again.”

It was Joe’s turn to let his hands wander over Methos’s body. He moved one in comforting circles over Methos’s right shoulder. “Nobody could have known I was Stage III instead of Stage II until they actually opened me up and had a look.”

“Yes, yes. I *know* that. Still. All those doctors, all those tests they did last summer…they *told* me, Jobey. It was all supposed to be so easy. Early stages, simple surgery, you’d be up and about in no time, nothing to worry about. You weren’t supposed to need follow-up chemotherapy at all. And then…” Methos slumped in defeat, his head suddenly feeling very heavy on Joe’s shoulder. “And then…they were wrong.”

“Yes. That’s right. They were.”

“So I can’t help thinking that, despite all the miracles of medical science at our disposal, they might just be wrong again.” Methos lifted his head to stare accusingly at his lover. “And don’t try to tell me that you ‘just know’ they aren’t, either. You were wrong, too.”

He half expected Joe to bristle at his accusing tone. But Joe just looked thoughtful. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “I don’t think I ever said anything about knowing what stage the cancer was in. I just said I knew it wasn’t going to kill me.” He looked directly into Methos’s eyes. “And I still know that. I do.”

Methos looked uncomfortable away. The truth was, he was finding blind faith to be a very rare commodity. When he’d first found that wrongness in Joe’s belly, Methos had been badly frightened…frightened enough to get Joe to an emergency room ASAP, and to call Cassie on his cell phone from the lobby while Joe was being examined. And Cassie had been reassuring. She’d laughed and joked and told him several times that everything would be all right. It wasn’t until after he’d hung up that Methos had realized she’d never mentioned Joe by name, never said concretely that *Joe* would be all right…and that had bothered him deeply, frightened him even more than finding the wrongness had. When the very grave physician in Japan had looked over Joe’s preliminary test results and told them they should return to the States at once, Methos had immediately called to book their flight for home-—and then he’d called back, less than a minute later, and changed the tickets so they could have a three-day layover in France. Once they got there, Methos lost no time in renting a car and purchasing a trunkful of climbing equipment. He meant to take Joe to see the Holy Lady of the Spring. 

But the Spring hadn’t been there. 

The cave was there. The hole in the ground that led to it was there. The stalactites and the sloping floor and the millions of pebbles that had once tripped Joe’s feet were still there, too. But where there should have been a radiant pool, there had only been more rock. Methos had stayed in the cave for a long time, disbelieving, before he finally gave in and accepted the evidence of his own eyes. Then he climbed the rope back to the surface, wondering how on earth he was going to explain this new development to Joe. *Sorry, Joe, you know how clumsy I am about losing my keys? Well, it seems like I’ve now misplaced one ancient, sacred spring, as well. Damn careless of me, I know...*. 

But Joe’s reaction had been calm, and very, very Joe. He believed that the reason they couldn’t find the Holy Spring was simply because they didn’t really need Her. And Methos, trying hard to be brave and cheerful despite the sinking feeling in his heart, had agreed with him. He’d held onto the idea all through the plane flight home, and even through Joe’s first day at the hospital in Las Cruces. Not even the early-morning confirmation that yes, Joe did indeed have cancerous tumors in his colon and would need to have surgery right away, had made him lose hold of it completely. It wasn’t until he was sitting alone in the waiting room the next day—god, so alone, no Joe at his side to comfort him—and the surgeon came to tell him that the cancer was far more extensive than they’d thought, that Methos had finally allowed the fear to overtake him. In desperation, Methos had dialed Cassie once again…

And for the first time since they’d met, Cassie hadn’t answered.

Now, months later, with dozens of unanswered and unreturned phone calls to Nepal under his belt—only about a tenth of which he’d told his beloved about--Methos really did try to look on the situation with the same optimism as Joe. Just like the Lady of the Spring, the reason Cassie wasn’t available to them now was because they didn’t really need her. Still, in his heart, Methos couldn’t help seeing it a different way. He couldn’t help wondering if the seer knew Joe was going to die and couldn’t stand to tell him. And even though Methos logically knew this wasn’t true—Cassie always acted for her own reasons, and often those reasons were as impossible for Methos to comprehend as the workings of the cosmos themselves—he couldn’t help but feel betrayed. And not just by Cassie, either, but by the universe as a whole. After all, Methos had expected to spend his life protecting Joe from the unique dangers of their lives: from other Immortals, from rogue Watchers, from homophobic civilians. But he’d never, ever expected that the enemy they’d be fighting would be Joe’s own body. At least not so *soon*!

But Joe was looking at him now, Joe’s certainty meeting Methos’s doubt, Joe’s love radiating out to conquer Methos’s pain—and as is always the case, the love proved more enduring. Methos was the first to look away. “I wish I could have found the Spring for you,” he whispered.

“I know you do.”

“And I wish I could get Cassie to return our calls.”

“Yeah. I wish you could, too.” Methos was surprised to see a fond expression come onto Joe’s tired face. “Mostly because I miss talking to the little know-it-all. Conversation with Cassie can be frustrating, but it’s never, ever dull. And also because the way she manages to keep Sandra in line, quiet and polite and practically wrapped around Cassie’s little finger, never fails to entertain me. It’s a bit like watching a Rottweiler being bossed around by a miniature poodle…though I’d rather you didn’t tell either one that I said that...”

“If rumor is to be believed, I don’t have to. Cassie already knows.”

“I suppose she does.” Joe smiled. “Anyway, I like the girl. So I would appreciate it if she called. But not because I need her to tell me I’m going to be all right. *That* I know already.” Once again, Joe’s clear eyes sought out Methos’s, resolutely forcing Methos to see the truth of his words. “I wish you could believe me.”

Methos shook his head softly at himself, reaching down to take Joe’s hand and lace their fingers together. “Maybe MacLeod and Amanda aren’t the only ones trying to protect themselves from the inevitable,” he said meditatively. “This whole thing has scared me silly, Jobey. Maybe I have been acting like the worst possible outcome is the certain one, out of some misguided notion that it will be easier to bear if I start preparing for it now. It’s just…” He let out a deep, horribly pent in breath. “I know I’ve got to lose you someday. I just…I just can’t do it yet. Not yet.” 

“You’re not going to.”

“You’re really sure about that?”

“Yes. I really am.” Joe unwound his fingers from Methos’s and lifted his hand to Methos’s face. “Let me show you just how sure.”

And with that he was urging Methos’s body to lie over his, and he was kissing Methos’s mouth with a passion that was strong and insistent and arousing beyond words, and Methos suddenly found himself with an erection so urgent and swift that it left him making a very un-masculine whimper in the back of his throat. He maneuvered his knees between Joe’s thighs, broke the kiss long enough to murmur a hasty “Like this?” and get an even hastier nod in response, and started lowering his hips to Joe’s. Joe’s cock was barely half-hard underneath him, but these days, with all the anti-cancer medications floating around in Joe’s blood stream, even that much of an erection was a gift. Methos lowered himself slowly, cautiously, somehow managing to keep his weight off of Joe and on his own hands and knees despite the body-wide flare of pleasure that shot through him as he did. He lined himself up carefully, closing his eyes to better absorb the wonderful sensation of Joe’s silky half-soft warmth nestled against his own urgent hardness. When he opened them again he saw that Joe was looking up at him with a fair amount of amusement as well as arousal. “Didn’t have to ask you twice, did I,” he chuckled.

Methos thought a few things far too profane for speech, but he contented himself with a withering look. And even that was quickly swept away, replaced by an awed look of bliss when Joe shifted slightly and another wave of pleasure rolled through him. “No, Joe,” he said shakily. “You never do have to ask me twice. I’ll always want you…always be horny for you…*fuck*….” 

He started rubbing against him over and over, using long, sweetly gentle strokes, thrilled when Joe’s head suddenly rolled back with an awed look of his own. His cock pulsed urgently against Methos’s, the head suddenly turning wet and slick with his climax. And if the orgasm was a gentle thing rather than an overwhelming one, barely moistening Joe’s skin and leaving him clear-eyed and peaceful rather than exhausted, it was still the sexiest thing in the world to the man who lay over him. Methos thrust hard into that scant wetness, savoring its feel and smell. Then he, too, was coming, hard enough to make a mess out of both them.

When it was over, he cleaned them both quickly before once again lying down with his head on Joe’s chest. He felt Joe’s hand close over his hair while he listened to the gentle *lub dub* of Joe’s heart. “Still beating,” Joe murmured softly.

“Yes.” Methos nestled closer, letting that quiet sound reverberate in his ears. Oddly, it seemed stronger now, louder than he’d ever heard it, despite years of lying with Joe just like this. His tired, sex-fogged mind sought sleepily for a reason why. Maybe it was because his own heart was beating in perfect time with it, and the one sound amplified the other. Or maybe… Methos spoke drowsily into Joe’s chest. “Maybe it’s like snow.”

“Like snow?” Joe sounded puzzled, but willing to play along. He usually was, whenever he’d just made Methos come hard enough to leave every muscle limp. “What is?”

“Cancer.” Methos yawned loudly. “You’re the one who said it, Jobey. Falling snow does make a sound of its own. But the real miracle of it is the way it makes everything else become so quiet. Which is pretty scary, when you think about it. Nobody likes it when the whole world disappears into silence.” He yawned again. A post-orgasmic nap was very near. “But maybe it’s only when everything else gets really quiet that you can hear the important things.”

And there it was. Subtle, so quiet it was more of a feeling than actual sound, but real nonetheless—the sound of Joe’s heartbeat mixing with the sounds of Joe’s breathing to make up the song of Joe’s life. It was ringing out in an effortless duet with his own. Methos snuggled close, and let the sound carry him like a lullaby down into sleep.

The End


End file.
